


and now for something completely different

by blindbatalex



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Homophobia, Homophobic Language, I am very tired, M/M, and, carlos tevez is an asshole, content warnings for, joe is terrible at speaking spanish, kun is scared of dictionaries, leo just doesn't want to get lost anymore, there are monty python jokes, will someone please bring out the comfy chair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12368178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: The first time Joe sees Kun play he falls in love a little. He seems like one of those people who can draw anyone out of their shell, bring life to any event. Like a man Joe would buy a drink for in a different world and chase the taste of alcohol on his lips.orKun is new to the team and to England and Joe helps him settle in. He doesn’t mean to fall for him along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [autumnale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnale/gifts).



> Dear giftee, you don’t know how much it means to me that I am not the only one who ships this wonderful rarepair. I’m not sure if I do them justice but thank you for giving me the opportunity to write for them. My dear beta, you know who you are and you know I’d be lost at sea without you with this fic.
> 
> The first scene is a lot to take, but the rest of the fic is free of heavy angst for the most part if you make it past it. It’s set in 11/12 season and [the roster](http://www.worldfootball.net/teams/manchester-city/2012/2/) might come in handy in terms of keeping track of player names. In addition here is the [Spanish Inquisition sketch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nf_Y4MbUCLY) from Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

_Oh there is no red in Manchester!_ the away fans are singing, loud enough to raise the dead, standing arm in arm, their faces red with the cold and the dizzying ecstasy of the win. The tunnel carries their song to the dressing room, and carries the team away with it. _It’s only home to Man City!_ They are so bloody proud, their speck of sky blue engulfed in a sea of red. Joe’s heart swells with pride in response too, to know that he is one reason among eleven that every single one of them get to wear their color to work and to school tomorrow, knowing they own the city, knowing the world will be talking about today for years to come.

“Did you know this is the worst they’ve been trashed at home since 1955?” David is shouting to have his voice heard over the din in the room, his eyes still on his phone and a devilish grin on his face. “ _19 bloody 55._ ”

Aleks has an arm around Edin, whom he is calling his hero for the world to hear and Edin is laughing, _melting_ in his arms. Kun is talking to five people all at once, just as much with his hands and body as his voice. Mario has already put some music on and turned it all the way up to make sure the United dressing room hears. Joe doesn’t consider himself a mean or petty man, but with the leftover adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the thought of their bitter rivals’ heads hung low in quiet disappointment is too good, too delicious to resist. “We did it,” he says to Milly, as he takes his jersey off, “we fucking showed them how it’s done.”

Milly can’t seem to stop grinning either. None of them can. He gives Joe a hearty pat on the back. 

“You bet we did Charlie.”

Time blurs together for a while after that. There is a team picture and a lot of off-key singing. Someone brings out champagne. Joe doesn’t know if even winning the league with City will taste this sweet. (And in that moment, standing in United’s away dressing room, Joe knows that they will, like he knows his own name.) It might just as well be hours before they head to the showers. Joe’s voice is already hoarse by the time they do and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He is laughing as he dries himself off, his mouth still refusing to exist in any form but a grin. They all seem to be in similar shape, like the high from the game will last them a lifetime. Across from him Kun looks absolutely gorgeous, his skin a lovely shade of light brown, taut over his well defined muscles. Little drops of water cling to his chest and abs, teasing just above the line of the towel wrapped around his waist. He leans over to pick up something from the floor, and the towel is too small really, small enough to expose the backside of a thick, muscular thigh all the way to Kun’s perfect round ass. Joe bites on his bottom lip, mesmerized, desire surging through his body and swirling in with the post-game euphoria.

“Wait a second,” a shrill voice says next to him. “Did you just _lick your lips_ at Aguero’s booty? How fucking gay are you?” 

With it Joe comes crashing back to the present. His head whips around to locate the source of the voice, the words ringing in his ears. Tevez is staring at him, pointing an accusing finger, face drawn in an incredulous sneer. 

“I--what, no. Of course not.” The words jumble in Joe’s throat, panic rising through his chest.

“You fucking did mate. I know what I saw. You wanna fuck him or what?”

Joe opens his mouth to say something, to deny the accusation in any way he can, but his lungs seem to be collapsing in on themselves, not enough air in the room left for him to breathe. In what feels like a lightyear away he is aware of his burning cheeks, of the quiet that’s descended onto the room, Mario has turned down the music with a frown, a dozen set of eyes are fixing Joe to his spot.

Someone, Milly maybe, chuckles and says something like _look at that ass who wouldn’t?_ but it falls flat, fizzles away in the oppressive silence of the room.

Joe looks around for a crutch--for anything to anchor him, to stop the world from spinning around him at a dizzying speed. “I--I don’t” he starts, just as his eyes land on Kun. Kun who is staring at him, his face drawn in absolute disgust, like he’s seen something that is making him sick. But it’s not just that. There is betrayal in there too, and raw hurt. His whole body seems to scream _I fucking trusted you,_ without him uttering a single word.

“Fucking homo,” Tevez spits next to him, his every word laced with a deadly venom, “to think you were hiding among us for years.”

They leave after that, the team, without a word. “No,” Joe mutters, “no, please no.” Milly stays back, but only for a moment, puts a gentle hand on his arm. Joe leans his head against the tile wall and presses against his eyes with the base of his palms. They come back wet, though he isn’t aware of crying. He shivers as a wave of nausea rocks his body. He is too cold and too hot at once. 

Finished. 

Alone.

***

The first time Joe sees Kun play he falls in love a little. Kun is new, a little out of his element and the grass still catches on fire every time he has the ball at his feet. Joe knows good, he’s trained with the best for years for club and country and still from the get go Kun is a cut above everyone else. He is raw talent and dedication and demands you stop and pay attention. 

Training against him keeps Joe on his toes, forces his game to be better from the first day. When they play together it’s a joy to watch the fear he strikes in their opponent’s eyes. 

Off the pitch he is easy with a smile, gesticulating with his hands in wide motions as he cracks up the Spanish speaking contingent of the team with another joke. He seems like one of those people who can draw anyone out of their shell, bring life to any event. Like a man Joe would buy a drink for in a different world and chase the taste of alcohol on his lips.

Joe catches him a few times though, early on. Frowning at the gray clouds that has left the city in a state of perpetual mist for three days in a row, or sighing a little too deeply after he hangs up on the phone. “Family?” Joe asks with a gentle smile, hoping he isn’t intruding and Kun blinks, as if just alerted to Joe’s presence. He smiles, the twinge of melancholy in the lines on his face is impossible to miss, “no. Messi.” Joe wishes there was something he could do beyond a nod and a smile, but he doesn’t speak Spanish, Kun doesn’t speak English and so that’s that.

*

And then Milly goes camping. 

Not just a gentle day’s hike through the woods either but a real camping trip, where he misses doing his weekly laundry and stays in a proper tent he puts up with Amy.

The team forms a half circle around him at training the next day, all questions and incredulity. “You actually took the train to the Lake District, with backpacks and stayed the night, like?” Vince asks, eyes wide with surprise.

“Who put up the tents?” Aleks adds.

“Why?” David says.

“Did Amy make you do it?” Yaya chimes in.

Joe is standing a bit outside the semicircle with the other two goalkeepers, still warming up. Milly looks exasperated. Before he can address one question another one comes flying in. “What is this?” he says in the end, throwing up his hands in the air in frustration, “the Spanish Inquisition?”

Milly literally says _Spanish Inquisition _. Joe doesn’t have much choice in the matter even if he wanted to stop (and he doesn’t.) And so he gallops over to where the rest of his teammates are standing and says what the circumstances demand in his loudest, most dramatic voice.__

__“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”_ _

__A collective groan goes up from the group. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Aleks tells him, “not that again” but Joe is too busy grinning with delight at the excellent timing of his act to care._ _

__Somewhere towards the edge of the circle Kun pulls on David’s sleeve with a deep frown on his face, speaking quickly. Joe only notices when David points at him and calls at their translator, Nick, from the sidelines before disappearing with a _you explain.__ _

__“Um,” Nick says, still too new to the job, “Mr. Aguero wants to know what you said just now.”_ _

__Joe’s eyes dart between Kun’s eager face and Nick’s scared one. “You mean ‘nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition’?”_ _

__Kun nods happily, catching onto the words. Joe rubs at the back of his neck wondering how one explains Monty Python to someone who hasn’t been in the country for three months. “It’s a joke?” he tells Nick, who translates. _A joke?_ Kun replies via Nick, _but how?_ frowning and quite unconvinced._ _

__It’s only the coach yelling at them to get into position that breaks the involved discussion that ensues. They pick it right back up again, afterwards, Kun jogging over Joe’s way and signalling to Nick. Joe elaborates further, talking about surreal comedy and absurdism, as large beads of sweat accumulate on Nick’s forehead. Kun asks, for the fifth time, how the Spanish Inquisition of all things could be funny or unexpected._ _

__“Watch with me?” Joe offers as a last resort, doesn’t know what else he can do to explain. Kun nods, curious if still a bit skeptical._ _

__Right, Joe thinks as he heads to the showers. A cute as hell Argentine who doesn’t speak English and has as many questions as stars in the sky in his house watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus._ _

__He can do this._ _

__***_ _

__Joe’s house feels warm and welcoming in the way only places that are lived in and well loved do. In the way Kun’s house doesn’t, yet. Picture frames dot the walls, Joe in various ages, laughing with his teammates, on a night out with friends, knee high with a ball at his feet. The living room offers a refuge from the dreary evening outside with its soft yellow lighting and the walls panelled in dark wood. The couch is soft and plushy and draws Kun right in when he finally sits down._ _

__Joe is a calm guy normally, as far as Kun can tell, easy with a smile and laid back but he hasn’t stopped bustling around tonight ever since Kun set foot in the door._ _

__“Milk?” Joe asks, when he finally appears with a tea tray, complete with delicate china cups and milk. He is so careful with the word and his pronunciation is so terrible that Kun has to bite the inside of his cheek to not to laugh. He nods and watches Joe set the tray on the coffee table._ _

__“Right.” Joe dashes out of the room again, leaving Kun to stare at the DVD menu on the TV. Kun shifts where he’s seated and wonders whether it’s too early to pour the tea into the cups. Like the common cold he can feel himself catching Joe’s anxiety and he wishes Joe would just stop and sit. The same animation sequence is playing for the tenth time on the TV. The menu song is nice at least, upbeat and cheerful._ _

__Joe has a gigantic book in his hands when he returns a couple of minutes later. Kun feels his eyebrows shoot up to the sky. _Why on earth_ \-- Joe sets it down on the coffee table and Kun reads the gold lettering on the black faux-leather cover. English-Español. _ _

__A dictionary._ _

__An old school, hard cover, brand new dictionary that is at least a thousand pages long. An ancient relic that Kun had believed--hoped--had gone extinct by now with the proliferation of technology and one that brings memories rushing back from days long gone by._ _

__Kun is ten and he is stuck in an oppressive grey concrete box of a building when he can hear the old field with its patches of dried grass calling to him. His feet, his whole being, itches for a ball. He is dreaming about growing wings and escaping through the narrow window, when the teacher--an older woman with thick glasses--whips out a brick of a book, with ominous black covers and drops it onto Kun’s desk. _Right then Sergio_ , she says, a mean streak in her beady little eyes like she knows exactly what Kun was thinking _why don’t you start looking up the words for our assignment. You can’t leave until you’ve found them all.__ _

__A bead of cold sweat runs across Kun’s back at the memory, the dictionary refusing to cooperate, stubborn as a brick, daylight slowly fading away outside just like Kun’s will to live._ _

__“No.” He gestures at Joe, and resists the urge to cross himself, but just barely. Really, what age does Joe live in--what age does he think _Kun_ lives in, this man, coming in with a hardcover dictionary to a movie night._ _

__Joe takes a step back, rubs at the back of his neck, still holding onto the evil artifact with the other arm. His pale face scrunches up in that rather adorable way it does whenever he is confused._ _

__“Dictionary?” he offers, a bit unsure. Kun shakes his head again, pushing the cursed object as far away on the coffee table as humanly possible, and despite his efforts to be covert, earns himself a laugh from Joe._ _

__*_ _

__Kun doesn’t remember much from the show in the end, just that it’s odd and that there are probably a couple dozen references that have gone right over his head. He does remember the way Joe reacts to it though, the way his expressive face melts from a grin to a chuckle to a sideways glance at Kun to urge him to look at the TV instead of at Joe. The first time the Cardinals burst into the room, Joe turns to him and says, very seriously, _nobody expects the spanish inquisition_ as if it’s the key to life’s greatest mysteries. Kun nods in return and puts on his best face of wise understanding, the very one that kept scores of teachers from cold calling him through the years after the incident with the dictionary._ _

__Joe sees him to the door, lingers. His eyebrows knit together in concentration and he looks so serious Kun half expects him to get down on one knee and propose._ _

__He says _adiós_ instead, with much care, dragging the ó so it sounds like _adiooooos_ instead. _ _

__Kun doesn’t mean to burst out laughing. But it’s quite possibly the simplest, most universal word the Spanish language has to offer and the monumental effort and sheer awfulness of Joe’s butchering is too much. He leans on the nearest wall to keep upright as laughter shakes his entire body and his eyes tear up._ _

__When he calms down and wipes at the corners of his eyes, Joe looks...somewhere between offended and like a puppy who has been kicked. It is a horrible, horrible sight and one that makes Kun regret his reaction immediately. He apologizes and offers the correct pronunciation with a smile, hoping that it’s enough. Joe repeats after him, still slow and serious, but butchering it a bit less this time. He waves at Kun as he leaves, a small smile back on his lips. A tiny part of Kun’s mind wonders whether he’s managed to really upset Joe, after he’s been nothing but a lovely host._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Joe sinks into his seat, draws his knees up, his back turned towards the aisle. Outside the runway stretches with its many green lights dotting its sides, the airport terminal a silhouette in the distance. It had seemed different two days ago, this place, less gray. It had thrummed with promise and anticipation. 

They may be a top side but so are we. Unbeaten. The game ours for the taking.

The plane is quiet around him as people file on board and put their carry-ons away, disappointment palpable in the air after an ugly match with its missed chances and yellow cards. Milly is somewhere towards the end of the queue, and it’s only a matter of time before he settles in the seat next to Joe without a word, the way he does after games that go wrong. 

He nearly jumps out of his seat when a hand gently tugs at his arm instead. 

Kun jumps back too, nearly hits his head on the edge of the overhead compartment, startled at Joe’s reaction. He says _sorry_ before pointing to the seat next to Joe “can I sit?” 

Joe doesn’t mean to frown. Doesn’t know how much he succeeds. Kun never sits next to him. Doesn’t really interact outside of training, other than that one movie night. And it’s a plane with assigned seat numbers, not a bus. He looks for Milly making his way from the front of the plane, Milly returns his gaze and shrugs when he sees Kun.

“Sure,” Joe says with a smile he doesn’t quite feel, “go ahead” before he turns away again. It doesn’t matter one way or the other anyway.

They take off. 

Munich glimmers underneath them with its myriad lights, grows more distant by the minute until it disappears under the clouds altogether. “Beautiful, no?” Kun says next to him, peering over his shoulder. 

“Yes,” Joe answers a little curtly, without turning around. 

There is an unwritten rule in the team that they leave Joe alone after defeats. Kun doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

There is a moment of quiet, all too brief, before Kun taps on his arm again. Joe turns towards him this time, trying not to grind his teeth.

Kun has his phone out and is showing him the screen, where a translation app is open. _It would look more beautiful if we won,_ the textbox in English reads, underneath the one in Spanish. “Si” Joe says, too sharply. He doesn’t need a translator or an app to tell him that. Kun smiles at him, a little apologetically, before he types into his phone again.

**It’s not your fault we did.**

Joe scoffs. If he caught the ball the first time. If he had been just that much quicker. If he didn’t let the bloody thing into the net he was meant to guard. Twice. Not his fault.

Kun looks tired though, nothing like his usual effusive self, just as bruised as the rest of them and here he is trying to offer Joe solace. “Lo siento,” Joe murmurs, sinking deeper into his seat, his tongue trip over the foreign words simple as they are, “gracias.” He offers a half smile, hoping Kun takes his apology.

Kun waves it away, clearly not done yet. He turns further towards Joe in his seat, closes most of the distance between them until their knees are almost close enough to touch. There is a fierce determination in his eyes, in the way they get when he is taking practice shots against Joe in training, like he can send the ball flying inside the net with sheer force of will. Joe finds himself listening even before he’s opened his mouth. 

“Joe Hart,” Kun says, his eyes never wavering from Joe’s. Joe nods, unsure what else to do or where Kun is going with it. Kun continues, lists their teammates one by one. “Richards. Kompany. Kolo Toure. Clichy--” no, not just teammates, the starting eleven--and then the substitutes before he ends with himself. 

“Manchester City. Not you.”

Joe looks away. Gratitude swells in his chest, unbidden; he didn’t know he needed comforting. Kun types into his phone again. Joe looks at it--

**It would be worse without your saves. You were the best player on the team.**

\--and then at Kun, he opens his mouth but no words come out. Kun is smiling at him, there are creases around his beautiful eyes but he doesn’t waver. Joe isn’t a religious man, never has been. But maybe he thinks, maybe this is what faith looks like and the sheer strength of Kun’s conviction is leaving him breathless.

He wants to thank Kun. Wants to comfort him back, wants to talk about trophies they are going to win and how much they have left to fight for but he doesn’t know how. He has a sense that he will choke up soon too if Kun doesn’t stop, this gorgeous, wonderful man who isn’t even his friend and doesn’t speak his language.

“Music?” Kun offers, changing the topic as easy as you please and saving Joe from making a fool of himself. Joe stares at the earbud dangling from Kun’s hand for a moment without comprehending--it must be years since he shared music like this with someone, probably not since his academy days--but he takes it nonetheless. It’s to Kun’s cheerful Spanish music playing in one ear that he dozes off, something warm settling in his chest alongside the frustration and the disappointment of the loss. 

*

They are just getting off the plane when Kun asks if he wants to watch Monty Python again the next day, to Joe’s surprise. 

Somewhere behind them Tevez is telling Aleks to get a room if he wants to drool all over Edin, the barb sharp and cold under the disguise of a joke. Aleks, being Aleks, doesn’t bat an eye before he promptly tells Tevez off. Joe wonders quietly, as Milly catches up to him, of the questions that would get asked had both Aleks and Edin not had proper, want-to-get-down-on-one-knee-and-propose-someday girlfriends. Of what would happen, where all his other teammates would stand if a nameless man he sucked off in the bathroom of some dark club came out tomorrow and said _yes, Joe Hart, that’s him_.

*

The next day, Kun’s visit starts just like the first time--with him walking in with a wistful smile Joe can’t quite place and the couch and the tea. Joe is a bit calmer this time around, now that they have the basics of the language situation figured out. He makes a bold move and puts the Holy Grail on instead of a twenty minute episode. Kun looks at him with amusement for a bit as Joe mouths along to the jokes or chuckles, and then promptly falls asleep a third of the way through the movie, his head falling on his chest like an old man’s. 

Joe wonders whether he should wake Kun--his neck will surely cramp up from sleeping at such an awkward position, but doesn’t in the end, can’t. And so he does the only thing he can do, he stops the movie, dims the lights and drapes a blanket over Kun with a smile.

Kun’s mouth hangs open just so, strands of dark hair fall to his forehead, having liberated themselves from the hold of his hair gel. He is even younger in his sleep somehow and perplexed, like there is a problem he just can’t wrap his head around. He looks so soft like this in the gentle lighting of Joe’s living room, the exact opposite of the ruthless forward that strikes fear into rivals’ hearts every week. 

Joe catches himself staring, and looks away. His cheeks burn even though there is no one there to see. He picks up the book lying on the coffee table--something on the history of music in Manchester--opens it to where he left off and forces himself to focus on the words on the page. Kun has no say in the matter. He’d surely prefer not to be ogled as he tried to catch up on a little bit of rest, least of all by a man.

He’s read all of twenty pages when Kun wakes up two hours later, rubbing at his eyes and stretching his neck. He startles when he notices the blanket and curses when he sees the time. It takes Joe five minutes to convince him that it’s alright, that Joe doesn’t mind.

They never watch Monty Python again.

Kun still comes over though. They find basketball games, or watch the DVDs of the Argentine telenovelas Kun brings. 

Joe is showing him an episode of _Life on Mars_ when Kun points at the Arndale and asks him where it is in Manchester.

“It’s right in the city center,” Joe types into his phone, “close to Piccadilly Gardens? The Printworks?”

Kun shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says and the screen reads. _I went to the city center only twice_ when Joe gets the phone back.

“Only twice?” Joe doesn’t even attempt to contain his disbelief. He puts up two fingers to emphasize his question.

Kun shrugs. “Training,” he says in English, “football. No time.” and types into the app to add that he’s been to a couple of restaurants and clubs with people but never gone sightseeing.

Now, the Manchester city center may be nothing to write home about. It doesn’t hold a mirror to London or to Madrid or to any of its sexier cosmopolitan cousins whether in terms of food or sights but it’s still vibrant and full of life and it’s their city. Surely, it’s worth at least a cursory look.

“Do you want to see?” Joe writes, letting his phone translate. “I am an excellent guide.” He put on a winning smile to lend credibility to his claim.

Kun’s eyes open wide in surprise when he reads and his entire face breaks into a delighted grin. “You show me?” he asks like he can’t quite believe he understood the words right and puts up his hand for a high five when Joe nods. His enthusiasm is infectious. Joe really isn’t complaining.

*

Joe picks up Kun from his house on a Tuesday morning, has to honk twice before Kun comes rushing out the door, his hair sticking in every which direction.

“It’s 10” Joe says with a smirk.

“It’s holiday,” Kun’s voice is still sleepy as he stifles a yawn and takes out a small container of product. 

“Piccadilly Gardens,” Kun asks when his hair is sufficiently styled and the car is parked in a garage, “can we go?”

Joe wavers for a moment between being a good friend and his own private enjoyment. But in the end there is only one way that mental choice was going to go.

They walk side by side past the empty pubs and the stores. Around them the city is quiet, the streets mostly empty in the reverie after rush hour.

Kun looks just as horrified as Joe hoped when they make it to Piccadilly Gardens. 

“Trees?” he asks, looking around at the small barren patch of grass and the ugly post-modern wall that stretches alongside it, “It’s a garden no? Flowers? Where?” Joe pretends to type something into Google Translate but covertly takes a picture of Kun instead. “Here” he breaks into laughter as he shows Kun the picture, the combination of cross, utterly surprised and disbelieving too perfect on Kun’s face.

It’s a bit of a miracle really that they don’t get recognized in the chase that ensues. “Mine!” Joe shouts while using the height difference to his advantage to hold the phone just out of Kun’s reach. Kun seems to give up--even backs out a step or two--but it’s merely an act as Joe finds out when he gets tackled down to the grass below a few seconds later. Kun tries to pin him down, all the while grabbing at the phone, but Joe is a goalie and Kun’s arms and upper body do not even compare to his. It’s easy enough--too easy really to roll him to his back and hold him there, grinning in victory.

“I won’t show anyone,” Joe promises with a chuckle as he lets go of Kun and throws himself on the ground next to him, still holding his phone a safe distance away. “No,” Kun says and it sounds as much like a threat he will make good on as anything else. 

Joe finds himself half hard from all the wrestling and the physical contact, as they lie there trying to catch their breath. Underneath them the ground is cold, the damp from the grass already seeping into their clothes, November reminding them it’s not to be trifled with. Joe wishes--

Well, he wishes for many things. As he takes the hand Kun offers and doesn’t meet his eye, none of them matter.

***

Leo visits in the beginning of December. He and Leo book the tickets with a virtual high five the second they realize they both have the same day and a half perfectly free. 

They hug at the airport, the urge to shout Leo’s name the moment he spots him at the top of his lungs almost too strong to resist, and chatter all the way to Kun’s home, weeks of life and memories and football to catch up between them. Leo’s presence lightens the house, makes it feel like home on a summer morning, bright and clear, however briefly. 

“Do you want to go sightseeing?” Kun asks, when their conversation has eased from frantic rapid fire to its normal levels, excited at the prospect of showing his best friend around his new city.

“Will you get us lost?”

Kun pretends to act shocked. “When have I ever got us lost?” he asks with mock indignance.

Leo reminds him of the seven times in Madrid (which in Kun’s defense is a rather confusing city) and the two in Buenos Aires (which again is rather hard to navigate when you are sloshed.)

“But you loved the ice cream place we stumbled on on the fifth time, didn’t you?” Kun cajoles sweetly, swiveling in his chair, “and Manchester is...too small to get really lost.”

“Nowhere is too small for you.” Leo shakes his head but he is beaming at Kun and already getting up to find his jacket.

Kun takes Leo to the places Joe showed him. They feed the pigeons at the tucked away St. Ann’s square, sitting on a bench outside the little church. Their legs were close enough to touch then, when they sat in this spot, Joe trying and failing to pronounce pigeon in Spanish. Leo manages to hit one of the birds in the eye with a piece of bread-- _how even?_ \--and the creature’s pained yelp breaks Kun out of his reverie. Reminds him that they should get going.

He shows Leo the Printworks, caught in a state of perpetual ambient half-light regardless of the time of day or the season and leads the way to the Northern Quarter, all the while telling himself they are avoiding Piccadilly Gardens because there is nothing there to see.

They have just sat down for coffee in a small hipster cafe--and the coffee isn’t nearly as good as the one a couple streets down had, the one Joe took him to--when Leo points out the obvious.

“You are distracted.”

“Hmm?” Kun focuses his attention back to the present, banishing all thoughts of blades of grass digging into his exposed neck and a pair of strong arms holding him in place as he wriggled to break free. “Hey,” he says, “do you want to meet my friends on the team?”

Leo takes a sip of his latte and points out that half of Kun’s friends on the team are Argentinian. He doesn’t look even half convinced by Kun’s change of topic.

Kun ignores that last bit and points out that Zaba would be heartbroken if he found out Leo came and left without seeing him. It’s the trump card, as Kun knows very well by this point, and it takes less than twenty seconds for Leo to give in. Kun grins as he dials David.

David grumbles a bit on the phone about how Kun never gives advance notices but accepts quite readily. Zaba is _delighted_ and promises to bring dessert. Carlos wavers until he learns Zaba will be bringing dessert at which point he jumps in with both feet. Kun calls his chef. Once it’s all but set up he fidgets with his phone for a minute trying to practice the same conversation in English in his head. It’s been months. He should be able to have a quick two minute conversation at this point, the way David or Carlos can. He should and yet there he finds himself typing a text instead. Joe texts a simple yes a few minutes later and Kun smiles at the prospect of a social outing well organized.


	3. Chapter 3

Joe comes back from his run to a text from Kun on his phone.

**Dinner tonight my house 19.30 bring wine!!**

He toes off his sneakers and squints at the screen all the way upstairs, trying to make sense of the text. They are friends. Friends eat together. They’ve ordered takeout to Joe’s place before when they were hungry.

Kun also blew off their weekly hangout last week saying he had a headache. Stood just a bit further from him at training, on the team bus. 

There is no reason it should have anything to do with their sightseeing day in the city, when they walked for hours bumping shoulders and and joked and laughed and wrestled, while something neither of them dared to acknowledge crackled between them, pulled them together.

 **Yes.** Joe types quickly before he steps into the shower, willing his pulse to go back to resting levels. 

He puts on a dark green polo sweater that Milly says brings out his eyes (though Milly also once suggested he buy the most comprehensive Spanish-English dictionary he could find and they all know how that turned out), makes sure his socks have no holes and heads over to Kun’s with the best bottle of wine he has in his cellar. 

He rolls down his window at Kun’s front gates. The night air, now almost into the territory of winter fills in the car, feels sharp against his skin. His hand hovers over the intercom button, hesitant. He takes a deep breath and wills his knee into staying still before he presses it.

It’s nothing. Kun is probably bored or wants to watch a movie or something. They are friends. 

Right.

The front door opens before he’s even made it out of the car. Kun stands smiling at the door, dressed in ripped jeans and a cream colored sweater that sits a tad too big on him. He looks gorgeous even in the dim light and beckons Joe in with a wave of his hand.

“Kun,” Joe says walking up the front stairs two at a time, closing the distance between them. Kun calls his name in return and it rolls of his lips like honey. Joe’s throat has gone a bit dry by the time he’s made it to the entrance, as he stands close enough to Kun that he could pull him into an embrace, into a kiss if he leaned in, easy as drawing breath. Kun doesn’t back away, just tips his head up slightly to look Joe in the eye, his lips slightly parted and Joe isn’t sure--it is madness, quite possibly, and yet-- Kun is looking at him with those beautiful brown eyes of his and Joe’s hand goes up of its own volition to cup his cheek, his stubble a little rough against Joe’s palm. “I have wine,” Joe says, voice gone hoarse, to have said something.

“Oh yeah, great,” a voice replies--a voice that is definitely not Kun’s--from somewhere behind them. Joe’s hand flies down to his side on instinct, Kun quickly takes a step back. Joe looks to see the offending party, trying to regain his calm and it’s Tevez--Carlos bloody Tevez almost prying the wine bottle from his hands and disappearing inside with glee. 

“Ah,” Kun mutters, a little apologetically, his eyes set somewhere far behind Joe’s shoulder. “Dinner? With friends? Leo, Zaba, Carlos and David.”

Joe nods. It makes sense all of a sudden, the text, the wine--everything. He straightens his back, clears his throat in an attempt to rearrange himself.

“Leo--Messi?” he asks as they go in, to test out his voice. Kun explains that he is visiting. His eyes brighten at the name as they always do, like the word holds the key to the secrets of the universe.

Messi is taller in real life than he imagined, standing only barely shorter than Kun. He is also not the quiet, reserved man Joe remembers from games and the press, here in Kun’s living room, laughing and chatting freely, at home among his friends. Kun is different around him too, more bubbly for sure, but he also seems happier, at peace down to the last cell in his body as he talks and eats. He glows in Messi’s presence like Messi is his sun. Something twists in Joe’s chest at the sight, something at once both ugly and sad, jealous of the wordless understanding that seems to flow between them, and jealous of their words, given and taken so freely, without care. 

They try, for their part to keep Joe in the loop, especially Zaba and David. Kun has seated him strategically between the two of them and they translate to and for Joe snippets of the conversation in turns.

“We are talking about Zaba’s grandma now, she used to make the best empanadas.”

“Did you know Leo freaks the fuck out if you wake him up at night by tickling him with a feather because we sure as hell didn’t until Romero tried?”

“Do you know about the time Kun got drunk enough we convinced him to make out with a lamp?”

Joe listens and nods and offers his opinion when asked but the conversation moves too quickly, and Zaba is too involved in it, for Joe to have much chance to contribute. So he focuses on his food and the wine, steals a couple of glances at Kun--glances Kun does not return--and abides his time until it’s late enough to politely leave. 

No one tries to stop him when he does, the group deep in an argument about the relative baking talents of the Spanish versus the Argentinian national teams. Kun takes a moment to wave at him from where he sits before jumping right back into the conversation with an objection. Joe can still hear his animated voice as he closes the door behind him.

“Fuck,” he says to the night, and takes a moment to rest his head against the door, pressing his forehead against the cold surface, bitter disappointment swirling in his chest.

His breath is visible in the air and it’s started to drizzle. He should have remembered to take his bloody jacket.

***

Kun doesn’t sleep well that night, despite the way Leo curls up next to him like a fluffy cat, radiating warmth and calm. Their almost kiss plays over and over again in his mind, incredibly stupid on his part when they had company, but Joe’s pull had been too strong, too perfect to resist. Like it had been in the park, when they were a hair’s breadth away from getting recognized and ending up in the papers. 

He picks up his phone a couple of times to text but puts the words elude him. The closest he comes is _hey, fuck Carlos am I right_ , and it doesn’t quite do the situation justice somehow. In the end he settles for waking up Leo to ask for advice.

Leo groans with the displeasure of being woken up in the middle of the night but he slowly sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes when Kun asks him if they can talk.

“I think I fucked up with Joe,” Kun says once Leo is sufficiently awake.

Leo makes a noncommittal sound and yawns. “We left him out of the conversation, didn’t we?”

“It’s not that.” Kun hesitates as he thinks about where to go from there, how to explain.

In the end he doesn’t need to. “You like him, don’t you?” Leo asks, reading him like a book as he always does. Kun nods. “But--”

But they hardly understand each other, perpetually one dead battery away from having to leaf through an archaic dictionary or sit in silence and smile. But they are teammates and there are so many ways it could go wrong, so little that needs to go wrong for the ground to slip from underneath their feet. But Kun isn’t sure Joe is interested, and that’s a lie anyway and he can’t hold onto it after tonight.

Leo listens without interrupting as Kun speaks, attentive if still sleepy. “Oh it would have been fun if Carlos caught you kissing,” he says when Kun gets to that part, “remind me again why we are friends with him.”

“Why are we friends with Carlos?” Kun echoes with frustration, “what do I do Leo? I didn’t even see him to the door and barely looked at him the entire night.”

Leo doesn’t even stop to ponder before he answers. “I think you are right that it would never work and you should just let it go while it’s early and be done with it,” He settles under the covers again and turns his back to Kun. “I’m sure Joe will get over it eventually.”

“Leo!” Kun has to poke him on the arm, so utterly ridiculous and unhelpful is his suggestion. “I was the host! He is my friend! I can’t just do nothing.”

Leo doesn’t turn around or sit up. “Fine then,” he says with disinterest. By God Leo can be infuriating sometimes. “Apologize for being a rude host. I’m sure whatever feelings he has for you, they will go away with time. You will be fine.”

Kun makes a noise that’s between an angry growl and a disappointed sigh. Thinking about Joe’s feelings slowly fizzling away over time...makes something ache in his chest. Makes him want to punch the wall or himself or possibly Leo for being so bloody unhelpful. 

He has to stare at the ceiling for a long time, telling himself it’s the rational thing to do before he finally falls into an uneasy sleep.

*

There is no sign of Joe at training the next day no matter how much time Kun wastes changing, only Milner, arriving late with a huff and Joe’s name on his lips as he converses with the other Brits. 

Kun is surprised when he finds out that Joe is out sick with a bad cold--he was perfectly fine last night. Something twists in his gut when Milner says _he walked for a solid hour without a jacket last night apparently--in this weather, the idiot._

*

Joe doesn’t try to hide his surprise when he sees Kun at the door. He is hugging a blanket close to himself--the same one he draped over Kun when he fell asleep on his couch what feels like years ago--and it resembles a colorful cape the way it wraps all around him, its edges sweeping the floor. His forehead is shiny with tiny beads of sweat, his nose is an aggressive shade of red and his hair clumps together in every which direction, damp with sweat. Joe looks ghastly. Kun tries to swallow past the guilty knot in his throat and the all too fast beating of his heart and makes to go in. 

Joe stops him with a strong hand on his arm. The blanket slips away from his shoulder at the motion and crumples to the ground in a pool around Joe’s feet. “Sergio,” Joe says looking Kun straight in the eye, his voice serious (and very hoarse) “no. I’m sick” as if it wasn’t quite possibly the most obvious thing in the world.

Kun moves his arm to free it of Joe’s grip. “I know. I come because you are sick.”

“No,” he says again past a sniffle, doesn’t let go. He frowns as he searches for the right words--a very familiar sight between them at this point. Kun hopes the right words aren’t along the lines of _I don’t want to see you right now, you twat._ “I’m sick,” Joe says eventually and mock-sneezes in Kun’s direction. “You will get sick too.” 

Kun waves his free hand to convey he doesn’t mind. “I make soup?” he says instead with the best puppy eyes he can manage, “and tea? Please?” He has no idea why he came, given the decision he reached last night to let things go, just that Joe is sick because of him and that he needs to be here.

Out at the door and without the extra layer of protection, Joe shivers. He quite possibly lets Kun’s arms go to collect his blanket from the floor but Kun grabs the opportunity with both hands and dashes inside anyway. 

He heads down the entrance to the living room, his feet take him to the refuge of Joe’s familiar couch in the presence of so much unknown. Joe follows after him and pauses at the door, frowning at Kun. His mouth is half open like he wants to say something but he gives up after a moment and settles in the armchair. 

Joe doesn’t quite meet Kun’s eye as he reaches for the half-empty box of tissues on the coffee table. The other half of the box lies in a small trash can that sits next to the sofa in crumpled balls that seem haphazardly thrown there, a couple are littering the floor. Kun doesn’t know what to do with his hands, with himself. Doesn’t know what to say.

Across him, Joe sneezes rather violently, his whole body shaking with the motion.

“Sorry,” Kun says, his chest tight with guilt and worry. “Sorry for last night.”

Joe’s eyes land on Kun for the first time since they sat down and pierce right through him, hurt and sadness and something much more bitter swirling within them.

“Yeah, me too.” Joe says before he blows his nose and gets up. “I will sleep now, okay?” the words spoken too quickly, too sharply. Kun can only look after him as he disappears upstairs with another sneeze, dragging his blanket behind him. 

*

There is a cry from upstairs. It’s loud and pained and instantly tears Kun away from the tennis match playing on the TV. He rushes upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, only one thought on his mind.

Joe.

He doesn’t knock at the door, just barges right in and Joe is--

Joe is asleep. He is buried under three layers of covers, but his face is drawn, brows knit tightly together and his forehead is shiny with sweat. “No,” he murmurs, “no no please no” with a whimper like his whole world is being torn apart at the seams.

Kun bends down to tug at his arm, calls his name. “Joe. Joe wake up.” 

Joe doesn’t hear him at first, just shakes his head, the horror the dream is inflicting clear as day on his face. Kun tries again, louder this time, his grip on Joe’s arm a bit tighter. There is very little distance between them, very little space separating his face from--

Joe’s eyes fly open. He recognizes Kun and they grow wide with panic. “Fuck” he scrambles to sit upright in a frenzy, out of breath, and all the while pleading with Kun. “Fuck, I’m sorry Kun I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-- it’s just--”

Kun draws back just a little to give Joe space. “Joe,” he says, “Joe, dream. It’s okay,” over and over again. He puts a hand on Joe’s arm, gentle and tentative, doesn’t let go until Joe wakes up fully, recognizes his bedroom.

“Ugh.” Joe runs a hand over his face--it comes back wet with sweat and tears--and embarrassed, smiles as he pulls himself back together. “Sorry. Dream.”

Like Kun needs an explanation. Like he wasn’t there all along watching him tremble in his sleep with horror.

Like Kun isn’t half the reason he has this cold in the first place.

Kun sits on the edge of the bed. His hand has never left Joe’s arm. “What dream?”

Joe tells him to wait. He fishes his phone from the bed stand, clearly doesn’t trust himself to put it in simple enough words. Color is high on his face and Kun isn’t sure how much of it is due to his cold. He doesn’t quite meet Kun’s eye as he passes the phone.

**Tevez caught me staring at your ass.**

Kun laughs out of sheer surprise. “Carlos,” he says with a disapproving shake of his head, trying to buy himself time, trying to process, “he’s an asshole.”

Joe nods and Kun hates the sheer effort it takes for him to grin, hates the very real fear etched into the creases around his puffy eyes, his nightmare is too familiar, too close to home.

Kun wants to hear him laugh again, wants him to know without the shadow of a doubt that he is safe, that everything is okay. 

He looks at Joe from underneath his eyelashes. Makes sure his voice is halfway between mischievous and outrageously flirty. 

“My ass is beautiful, no?”

Joe chuckles, out of sheer embarrassment, but his voice is firm when he answers, looking Kun dead in the eye.

“Yes.”

The word rolls of his lips like a confession, like a breath they had both been holding in for a while.

Kun hesitates for the briefest moment though it feels much longer, his heart beating fast.

He lets his hand find its way to Joe’s jawline. Joe’s eyes track it, the smallest bit of surprise tucked away in his smile. Kun leans in, doesn’t say a word..

It’s surprisingly easy to close the distance between them. Joe’s lips are reverent on his own and they keep finding each other for kiss after kiss, drawing away only to come back again, slow, like they have all the time in the world. Kun places a hand on the back of Joe’s head and pulls him in deeper, as reverent turns into hungry, careful into desperate. Kun moans and he can feel the effect it has on Joe, feels the shiver that runs through Joe’s back in his own skin. He climbs onto the bed, burning for more contact, more of Joe, just _more_ and sits on Joe’s lap, straddling him. 

Joe makes a sound, though not one particularly sexual in nature and before Kun realizes he is being pushed away with considerable force.

 _What on earth?_ he wonders for a moment but not for long as Joe turns as far away as possible and sneezes violently. 

Right. Kun had forgotten about that small detail.

He blows his nose and laughs, Kun still sitting on his lap. It’s a sound full of delight and joy and Kun finds himself laughing in return too.

“You will so get sick,” Joe says but he is smiling and his hand is tracing a line on Kun’s chest. Kun finds that he can’t bring himself to care.

*

Kun wakes up to a stuffy nose and a pounding headache the next day. They practice baskets with used tissues and the trash can and make ginger tea. The gaffer is a little mad. He texts Leo to say he’s done the exact opposite of his advice, hoping Leo isn’t too disappointed.

Leo texts back almost immediately.

**When have you ever done as I told you?**

**:)**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading friends. I am...sorry for the cop out in the end? I wanted to make the first scene real but dealing with the fallout would have taken another 5k words and I did not have the time I’m afraid to do it justice being the slow writer I am. Kudos and especially comments are my life blood as always. Some notes:
> 
> \--Manchester City won the league title for the first time in 44 years at the end of 11/12 season on goal difference thanks to Kun’s injury time goal.  
> \--Their famous win against Manchester United was indeed the worst defeat United suffered at home since 1955. United would have won the league, all else equal, had they lost by a smaller margin.  
> \--[Piccadilly Gardens](http://i2.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/incoming/article1766113.ece/ALTERNATES/s615/MEN_ARC_0113732_5996484.jpg) is the greatest lie told in a name. It took me three days of wandering around the Arndale area wondering where this “park” was and how I could have kept missing it, before realizing that no, it was merely that sad looking patch of grass over there all along.  
> \--[The Printworks](http://www.theprintworks.com/printworks-history/) and [St. Ann’s square](http://i1.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/incoming/article13166739.ece/ALTERNATES/s615/p1.jpg) are both very dear to me and both gorgeous.


End file.
